


Apocalypse Song

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Degrassi
Genre: Alcohol, Bisexual Character, F/F, Teenage Pregnancy, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-12
Updated: 2011-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2122500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anastasia Valieri and Mia Jones keep intertwining, crossing paths.  One of these days, there’s going to be an explosion.  Spoilers for Season 7.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocalypse Song

\--

 _All your praying moments amount to just one breath  
Please keep your victory  
But give me little death_ \- St. Vincent

\--

Mia used to imagine a white wedding, stacks of decadent cake (sometimes it was chocolate, sometimes topped with fruit), pyramids of champagne glasses overflowing and no one caring. During the week, she doodled pictures in the margins of her notebooks of bouquets, of stilettos in which she knew she'd never be able to walk down the aisle. She pictured herself wobbling at the beginning of the march, grinning, tossing her shoes into the crowd.

She used to party on the weekends with Bruce and Sydney and Nic and Drake and Johnny and Lucas and his sister Anastasia, who made the models in Seventeen look boxy and cow-ish in their summer and back-to-school fashions. She made Mia blush when she told dirty jokes, she’s made all the boys go crimson, brushing against them _just so_. Sydney sometimes commented to Mia that Ana’s just “that kind of girl,” though Mia was never sure what that meant.

Mia used to get wasted on cheap wine and dance into the late night, holding girl-hips against hers, forgetting that what she wanted – or thought she wanted – was a normal life. She would inhale as deep and hard as she could and get high on the scent of Anastasia Valieri, and later, after more drinks and more dances, when Lucas would slide his thick athlete’s arms around the both of them and offer a ride home and mean one stop, Mia would agree because it meant curling up in the back seat with Ana and finding some delusional trace of her on his bed sheets (blood has to mean something, she would murmur to herself, picturing the way white tulle would fall against her ankles, against Anastasia’s ankles) and harsh looks in the morning. But looks all the same.

Mia used to imagine a brief sort of ceremony where a priest, or maybe even her mother, would bless them, and then Ana would kiss her and they would brush back each other’s hair and Lucas wouldn’t be there so he wouldn’t watch for once, and then they would dance just like the did at the ravine, and their bodies would move like dancers and Ana’s fingers would find Mia’s and they would fit perfectly like a gift. And that dream was better than the one with cake and champagne and stilettos, though she still doodled, and she still wrote her name “Mia Valieri” on her notebooks, and laughed when her mother sighed about spending too much time with that boy.

\--

The pregnancy became a series of tests bought frantically at the drug store, late nights spent crying, first into her pillow, then the telephone – until the night when Anastasia hung up on her - and then into her mother’s lap. She didn’t think she could kill it, and even educated, couldn’t think about abortion any other way. Mia held her stomach when she bent over the toilet and vomited each morning, knowing that what she kept inside her was precious, looking away when her mother shook her head, sighed.

Of course the baby grew, the situation became obvious, and Anastasia never said another word. Mia sometimes touched her hand to Ana’s and started to speak before remembering that nothing would come back. Nothing ever did.

But when Isabella was born, a card came from Jane.

\--

With a baby in her arms, Mia didn’t really have time to doodle. Lucas wouldn’t look her in the eyes, but the only time Mia cared was when the mail came from Attorney to Lucas Valieri and the last name would catch in the light for a quick moment before Mrs. Jones ripped open the envelope and started sighing all over again about child support.

A different letter came, Isabella sick with colic. Mia would have to drop out if she didn’t catch up. And she realized now that the world wasn’t a series of drawings in the margins of her notebooks; that she would have to do something to become someone more than a name, more than a girl who got pregnant and had a baby. She owed it to herself to become more than just Mia Jones.

Doing it alone, still bruised and broken, was a test she took. Mia told herself that she could look all of Lakehurst in the eye and show them who she was. The only problem with that, Mia thought, instructing the day care worker how Isabella liked her bottles, was Mia wasn’t entirely sure _which_ Mia Jones she wanted to show off.

\--

Degrassi wasn’t much different when it came down to the hard details. She was still, basically, the girl with the kid. Sure, no one knew about the party girl thing, but Mia always just figured that they assumed it came with the territory. Nice girls don’t get pregnant, not that young.

It didn’t help that she managed to get wrapped up in the least available romance of the century, let alone the only boy in the whole school to get murdered. It had her name written all over it, and the rumors were that he didn’t even love her. Fabulous, wonderful. Just when she was daring to dream again, when she was finding the time to doodle in spare notebooks and forget about double-dress weddings.

She should have known better. Should never have allowed Isabella the luxury of learning someone else’s name.

\--

Mia should have seen this coming too; she should have seen Jane coming. Who could have predicted the Lakehurst fire? Who would have placed bets that Lucas and his estranged sister would be among the students arriving en masse through the doors of Degrassi, through the doors that Mia now called home, invading what was now her safe place.

Of course, they had been avoiding the collision for so long that when it actually happened – hardly a touch, barely an exchange of skin cells – it was all the more startling. The years never change the outside like the inside thinks they will.

Quiet words in a hallway felt like echoing yells; “Just because we’re back at the same school doesn’t mean you should talk to me.”

“Hard not to. Your brother is the father of my kid.” Mia didn’t want to say it; it cuts her too.

Ana – Jane flinched. “You want money, you’re out of luck. I don’t talk to him.”

“I don’t want money,” Mia sighed. “Not what I meant either.”

Minor wounds. Weapons drawn.

\--

Mia dreams of finding her old self in a back alley, and that self is so young but somehow smiling. So she goes to the party, acts against her better judgment. Tries to find what she’s looking for. Tries to find a reason to dream again. Lucas is all over her, suffocating, but Jane is there in flashes. Not Ana this time, not Ana anymore. Ana was wrong; Ana was drunk girls on weekends and condom-less hookups in messy beds. Jane is a daughter upstairs calling for Mommy and a few sips too many, and consequences in the morning.

Yes, she’s on her own. A teenager; sometimes a foolish one.

She loses her grip, she stumbles. But she remembers Jane’s arms around her daughter, the female Valieri’s face cold, concerned. Mia doesn’t think it’s too late for her, even now. She’s too busy for the notebooks, but not for dreams of smooth lips and strong hands.


End file.
